


Acceptance in Silence

by rolypoly_panda



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, BAMF JT Tarmel, Concussions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, JT Tarmel Whump, Major Character Injury, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Minor Original Character(s), Seizures, Whump, its spooky szn out here yo, just for some background shit, two bros chillin in a hot tub right next to each other because why not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24483640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rolypoly_panda/pseuds/rolypoly_panda
Summary: War leaves behind scars, no matter how much JT tries to fight it. It injures deeper than the skin, and hurts more than the bruises and battle wounds that come with it. No matter what he does, JT can't escape that fact. He can't escape his past. And nor can Malcolm Bright, for that matter.After a dangerous encounter with an unstable kidnapper traps JT and Malcolm in a burning building, JT realizes just how scarred he really is, and just how much he truly needs Malcolm.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Comments: 12
Kudos: 72
Collections: Prodigal Whump Fic Exchange - Spring 2020





	Acceptance in Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SoulfireInc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulfireInc/gifts).



> All characters and copyright content belong to FOX.

Vincent Muller had died twenty-one years ago. He was long-since a memory, his face a mere haze in JT’s mind and, yet, something about him still lingered. For months after the incident, Muller’s death had been a wildfire inside JT, something uncontrollable, a Goliath that he couldn’t control. That fire had been snuffed out over two decades ago, but somehow, no matter what JT did, his memory stayed. What remained of Muller inside JT was nothing more than embers, but embers were still hot even after the flame faded, he knew. They were embers that were still capable of the deepest, darkest burns, despite being meager glowing shards of rubble at the bottom of his pit.

Twenty-one years of therapy, and patience, and healing had left JT bandaged and strong. He could walk to the store without glancing over his shoulder. He could sleep at night without double then triple-checking the locks. He could do a lot of things, but what, JT couldn’t do was shake those eyes. Some nights, when it was too quiet, he could see Muller’s eyes. And  _ that _ , perhaps, was what haunted him the most. The eyes. If JT could recall correctly, they were rounded and on the smaller side, a deep shade of marine-blue. When Muller’s face wasn’t caked with black mud and tar, his eyes were complimented with a shock of bright, white-blond eyebrows and even lighter hair to match. He had short eyelashes and a sharp gaze, one that was always calculating, always present, always looking for the next mission, the next move.

That was why, after twenty-one years, it had still  _ terrified _ JT to see those eyes filled with numb submission.

Malcolm’s eyes, too, had once held that same defeat only three months ago.

Gil, Dani, and JT had stormed Bright’s very own home, slowed with tactical gear on and weapons loaded. They had found John Watkins stuffed into a trunk, delirious and enraged. They had found Mrs. Whitly in hysterics at the staircase, screaming for them to come help. They had found Ainsley propped up against a wall, blood caked from her hairline to her shoulder.

And they had found Malcolm - normally the loudest center-of-attention - standing rigid-stiff in the center of his mother’s bedroom, his gaze downturned. Bright had given up his fight, it seemed, with hunched shoulders and a sway to his stature. Blood had blackened his shirt, as black as the bruises at his temple and the bags under his eyes.

_ Torture _ , JT had instantly recognized. He had seen it far too often in his lines of work, unfortunately. He had seen the blood, the bandages, the pain, the bruises…

...But the  _ eyes. _ The eyes were something JT hadn’t seen.

Not for a long time.

Not since Vincent Muller.

And the realization had left JT shuddering. He had inched up to Malcolm like one would a feral animal, the others by his side, and he had been shaking. Gil hadn’t seen it, too focused on his son. If Dani had seen it, she never mentioned it after. But JT was  _ shaking  _ because their loud little spitfire-of-a-profiler was reduced to  _ silence. _ His body had been exhausted beyond comprehension, his mind had stalled, and his eyes had screamed that same numbed submission

From that day on, JT couldn’t shake those  _ eyes _ . He couldn’t shake the memory of Muller, with shrapnel shredding his insides and staining his outsides. He couldn’t shake the memory of Bright, swaying, his swollen hand and oozing stab wound puddling a pool of blood on the floor.

But Malcolm was alive. He was alive, and breathing, and everything that Muller no longer was.

JT wanted to  _ keep  _ him that way.

Never again did he want to see Bright stumbling from blood loss. Never again did he want to hear Bright’s high whines of agony as Gil and JT help him to descend one meager staircase. Never,  _ ever _ again, did he want to look into Bright’s eyes and see that resignation.

_ Never _ .

So, upon glancing in the rearview mirror and seeing Malcolm’s sharp, calculative gaze catch his, JT felt a flood of cool relief. Their boy was back from Watkins, on the mend physically as much as he was mentally, and was tackling their case at full force.

“It’s unlikely Davis will murder Melissa Marinzetti.” Bright said. “This type of thrill-killer wants an audience, wants power...he’s got none of that right now.”

“Then why go to this place?” Next to him, squeezing her overhead handle, Dani asked, “Why not just...take him out into the open?”

“Because  _ we _ are his target audience.” Malcolm said. “Davis wants  _ us  _ to come to  _ him _ .”

From the passenger’s seat, Gil whipped around. “What about the hostage?”

From the rear view, JT could see Malcolm wagging his hand. “Melissa Marinzetti is a decoy. This guy is a cop killer. He wants  _ us _ , not  _ her _ . And nothing gets a dozen police in one area like a hostage situation.” JT thrummed his fingers against the steering wheel. The SUV bounced as they took the dips and dents of the back roads at full-speed. “We’ll want to prepare for anything.” Bright continued. “Most commonly--”

Dani’s phone ringing interrupted him. She took a moment to wrestle it from her jacket before saying, “It’s Davis again,” She waved her phone in the air. JT pushed his comm into his ear a bit deeper. Gil motioned for her to answer. After a beat, Dani brought the phone to her ear and said, “This is detective Powell with the NYPD. Jonah Davis, we’re on our way to the discussed location. Is Melissa Mari--?”

“ _ Who? _ ” Davis’ gruff voice filled JT’s right ear. The man’s heavy breathing spiked shivers down his spine. “ _ Who _ is coming? The NYPD? The FBI? CIA?”

“CIA doesn’t deal with internal affairs…” Malcolm mumbled.

Gil brought a finger to his lips.

Dani answered, monotonously, “The NYPD’s fourteenth precinct is sending officers to your discussed location now. Jonah Davis,  _ is Melissa Marinzett _ \--?”

“ _ No! _ ” Davis snarled. “I said I wanted to talk to your  _ goddamn commissioner _ , not some rookie  _ cops! _ ”

Before Dani could respond, the line cut in their ears. Gil mumbled, “This doesn’t look good…” JT brought the car down another street, hugging the corner tightly. “Damn. Okay, first thing’s first. Locate Melissa Marinzetti. After that, we’ll work on Jonah Davis.”

They drove a couple-hundred more feet before JT turned onto the street of the call. At the end, a cruiser was already parked, its lights flashing, drawing people out of their row-homes across the street. JT knew the last thing they would want was media coverage of the situation, as Malcolm had said it could, “Egg him on in a not-so-good way.” But with the amount of phones up and likely recording, he knew their attempts to keep it quiet were futile. Davis would have a show and, unfortunately, that was the last thing the wanted.

JT brought the SUV into park and they all clambered out into the summer-hot sun. Malcolm was squinting as he came up next to JT, the two of them mirroring Dani and Gil from the other side. He fiddled with the velcro on his NYPD bulletproof vest, readjusting it while glancing up at the giant building before them.

What it lacked in width, it made up for in six floors-worth of height, with shattered windows and rotting wood. Electricity had long-since been cut to the building, but with their flashlights, they could hopefully avoid any holes in the flooring.

“Okay,” Gil began. “Tarmel, you’re with me. We’re taking the front entrance. Powell, you’re with Flemming in the back.” He gestured over his shoulder to one of the two officers stepping out of the cruiser a few feet away. “Bright, you stay with DeNardo. He’ll escort you if we need you.” The other officer nudged his chin towards Malcolm.

“ _ What? _ ” Malcolm spat out a laugh. “Are you serious? He’s a  _ cop killer  _ with a hostage, the perfect leverage against you guys! I can’t just stand by and--!”

“Yes you can.” Gil snapped. “And you will.” He glanced up at DeNardo. “We’ll be on channel two-two-five. Keep an eye on the profiler?”

The officer nodded, dropping his hands to his heavy belt. “Sure thing, sir.”

Malcolm made a move to chase after them, but Gil stopped him with a glare and a sharp, “ _ Bright. _ ” Flemming followed after them as they approached the building, leaving DeNardo and Bright behind. 

“Powell, Flemming, you take the first floor to basement and circle back. JT and I will go straight for the second floor and up. All right?” He got three nods. “Okay, let’s go.” Gil moved for the building. JT was hot on his tail, the two of them with their guns out and at their sides. Dani and officer Flemming disappeared behind the side of the building in JT’s periphery, leaving the two of them at the front door. “You ready?” Gil asked.

“Yeah.” JT stepped back. In a quick one-two, JT kicked the door down with a heavy  _ slam _ of his boot as Gil brought his firearm and flashlights up. He lead the way into the decrepit building, shining his light to a particularly deep hole close by.

“Watch it, everybody,” He shined his light back to the staircase. “The place is falling apart.” Gil turned them sharp and had them heading for the staircase nearby. Distantly, JT heard the crunch of the backdoor being caved in by Dani and Flemming, their footsteps echoing across the floors. “ETA on ESU and SWAT?”

“Five minutes.” DeNardo’s voice came over the comms.

Upstairs, the skeleton of the building was illuminated by large, square windowsills. Long, bare hallways met him, stripped of most of its drywall and wallpaper, boiled down to the rotted wood structure beneath. What carpet was left behind was waterlogged, stained black with molds. Last night’s rain had the fibers squishing with every step JT and Gil took.

Gil turned them down another hallway..

JT held his breath.

He was practically waiting for Davis to sprint out. Practically waiting for a deafening gunshot and a muted pain that marked the end of his life. Every turn, every twist, he waited.

And waited.

And--

“Gil,” Dani’s voice came in over comms, startling him. He swallowed his surprise, showing a mere twitch of his mouth to Gil as Gil turned to him. Dani continued, “Basement and ground floor are clear. We’re coming up.”

If the anticipation was hell for JT, it must have been purgatory for Bright. They all knew what Gil meant to Malcolm, a father that he never had. And they all knew what pride Malcolm wore when he was able to help his team. To be sedentary, unable to do both, must have been torture.

JT and Gil stepped onto the landing of the third floor. Unlike the second floor, this one was darker, with less windows and more walls that were far more in-tact than before. Behind them, Dani and Flemming’s steps made the wood groan. If Davis  _ was _ here, he likely heard it, likely heard them coming without them even being on the same floor. He cursed under his breath, but continued to follow Gil. They rounded a bend in the hall, switching leads as one checked the opened-door rooms while the other had their back.

Clear.

Clear.

Clear.

Every room was clear.

By the time they reached the fifth floor, JT was exhausted from strain. Hypervigilance was fantastic for short periods of time, but as is feet found the fifth landing, JT wanted nothing more than for it all to end. His muscles ached, his heightened awareness left him feeling edgy and paranoid and, for a brief moment, he almost  _ craved _ Bright’s presence.

The guy had a way of making a situation lighter, of making something nightmarish into a mere bad dream. Sure, JT preferred to be more of a realistic-pessimist himself, but Malcolm sometimes made him want to think positive-ish, or as positive as he could get. He made JT want to see a lighter side to a darkened world. And to think, the recently-tortured, PTSD-addled man that had annoyed the  _ shit _ out of JT for months on end would become a shoulder to lean on, mentally speaking. A very small, scrawny, thousand-dollar-suit-covered shoulder…

The sixth floor was just as quiet as the fifth, and the fourth, all the way to the first. As they cleared the last room, JT huffed in frustration, holstering his gun. Gil followed suit with a growl, mumbling out, “He played us.”

From outside, Bright’s voice came through the comms, “Wait, what?”

“He played us, Bright.” Gil snapped. He began pacing, the wood groaning underneath his stomps.

Dani said, “We made it to the sixth floor. Nobody’s up here.”

“Wait...you’re on the sixth floor?” Malcolm asked, his voice a bit deeper than earlier.

Gil glanced between JT, Dani, and Flemming. “Yeah, kid. Why?”

There was a rustle over the comms, followed by snap of gunfire and the slam of the car door. Malcolm’s heavy breaths echoed in his ears, strained tight as Bright shouted, “Get to the first floor! Fast!”

Not a moment was spared before Gil, Dani, JT, and Flemming were rushing down the stairs, taking two at a time sometimes, risking punching a hole in the wood as they heard Malcolm huff, “Jonah Davis, my name is Malcolm Bright. I just want to talk…”

They passed by the forth floor landing.

“I said I wanted  _ the commissioner _ , not  _ cops _ .” Davis’ voice came through Bright’s comms. JT’s stomach dropped hard, winding him. He was tempted to hop over the guardrails rather than take the last few steps. Gil looked just as eager as they reached the second floor’s landing. “Now back up!”

JT could smell the fire before he saw it. The staircase to the first floor was heavy with the stench of acidic oil. As they rounded the steps and pooled onto the first floor, guns raised and flashlights up, their beams caught Malcolm’s back, his hands raised to the people past him: Davis, with a sobbing Melissa Marinzetti. A molotov cocktail burned next to her face with Davis’ arm catching her in a chokehold, a pistol raised in his other. The barrel of the gun jumped to JT, Gil, Dani, and Flemming. Davis’ eyes widened.

“You’re in control, still,” Malcolm soothed. “This is your show.”

“Damn  _ straight _ it is.” Davis hissed through a gap in his teeth. “Now you better get the commissioner down here in  _ minutes _ or we’re all going up in smoke!”

JT chanced a glance behind them, out the opened front door. A few feet away, sprawled on the lawn was DeNardo, his body face-down but the gunshot to his head a bright contrast to his greyed hair. JT could practically see the matter inside. He twisted back around. Davis had his sights on Malcolm once again.

Slowly, Malcolm said, “We can’t bring you the commissioner, but  _ I’ll _ have to do.”

Always the self-sacrificial bastard, JT knew. What was with him meeting people who were so ready to die? Bright, Muller, his fathers and grandfathers in the wars; they all seemed to be content with throwing their lives to the wolves. Nonetheless, he zeroed in on a shot, trying to find a hit that would take Davis out, should he take Malcolm up on whatever offer he had just made.

Davis’ eyes widened comically. “And who the  _ fuck _ are you?”

“Malcolm Bright, NYPD consultant.” Malcolm’s voice got tighter. “I’m with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m a profiler.”

The room went quiet, save for Marinzetti’s soft hiccups around tears. JT shifted his stance. To his right, Gil’s trigger finger twitched. He heard Flemming’s heavy breaths behind him.

Davis seemed to light up, slowly, an excitement dawning on him, as if he were a child in a toy store. His grip on his pistol faltered, only briefly, before he mumbled out, “FBI? You’re...with the FBI?”

“I am.” Malcolm nodded. Only then did JT realize his bulletproof vest was gone, leaving him in his usual light grey suit and nothing more. No weapon, no defense, only his mind to manipulate their cop-killer into  _ not _ killing four cops, a hostage, and one liar. “Now, if I’m not good enough, I--”

“The FBI had my brother arrested.” Davis whispered. His wild eyes glittered with tears. “He was  _ taken  _ by you!”

They all knew the case, inside and out: Jonah Davis, the older brother of a pair, was born and raised in upstate New York. His younger brother, Phillip Davis, was arrested nearly ten years ago after kidnapping and killing five women, each around sixty years old, with dark hair and pale skin. She was a perfect match to their abusive mother, who died in a drunk driving accident in the eighties.

Phillip Davis was, by no means, innocent, and nor was his brother. They were both criminals in JT’s eyes, both  _ murderers _ . And no murderer, no matter who they were, should be allowed to walk free, in his book.

Davis shuffled a bit, uneasy. The molotov was still burning, just barely, the rag with mere inches to go before it was completely inside the glass. Bright must have noticed, because he quickly said, “What can I give you? What can I do to bring Melissa Marinzetti home? Your anger is with us, not her, so let her  _ go _ , Jonah.”

“You’re right.” Davis bowed his head. “You’re abso- _ fucking _ -lutely right!” His eyes flicked up to Malcolm’s. “So here…”

Davis shoved Marinzetti. She stumbled forward, screaming. A gunshot cut the tension as everyone dropped. Gil, Dani and Flemming dove for Melissa as JT rushed after Malcolm. Malcolm, who broke into a run after a madman with a molotov. Malcolm, who was faster than JT, somehow, skittering down the hallways without looking where he was going. Malcolm, who cried, “Watch out!” without even looking to who was following him, but thank  _ God _ he did, because JT had just enough time to narrowly dodge the molotov that soared by and smashed into the wall behind him.

Heat burst from the bottle as the fire instantly caught to the wood. Within a few seconds, flames were licking the ceiling and puddling across the floor. Smoke flooded the hallway in rolling grey waves. JT reached around and grabbed Malcolm, who was gawking as much as he was. He dragged Bright through a doorway and towards the front door as the halls around them became shrouded in smothering black. Around them, the building crackled, sounding as if it were ready to collapse on top of them.

Over the comms, JT heard Gil shout, “JT! Malcolm! Where are you?”

JT breathed in to respond, but choked. He could see the light from the front door through the billowing smoke, but only barely. He rushed for it, tightening his hold on Malcolm’s wrist. He just needed to get them out, needed to get them to fresh air before the smoke consumed them. JT ran faster--

His foot punched through the floor, rotted wood scraping up his leg from ankle to calf and then some as he seized up and screamed out, dropping to his hands and knees. Malcolm wrenched back, suddenly free from JT’s grasp. His eyes were wild with desperation as he collapsed next to JT. Bright grabbed his pantleg and jerked as JT tried to pry himself free. Splinters ripped through his lower calf. Behind them, the fire crawled closer. Malcolm’s breaths came shorter, faster as he exasperated himself to try and wrestle JT free.

JT kicked out. His boo tugged awkwardly, and only then did he realize he was caught on something. A nail, perhaps? Or…

_ It didn’t matter. _

So long as they escaped. As long as  _ Malcolm  _ escaped. The guy had enough problems as it were, and severe lung damage due to smoke inhalation was not one he needed added to his list. JT grabbed Malcolm’s fumbling hands. He shouted, “You need to get out!”

Malcolm wheezed around the smoke. He stared at JT as if he had sprouted a third eye. “A-Are you  _ serious? _ ”

“Yes!” JT wriggled his toes in his stuck shoe, trying to loosen the laces enough to pull it out. “Get out! Now!”

The entrance to the building was becoming harder and harder to see through the smoke. Heat seared the scrapes that lined the balls of JT’s palms from where he hit the wood. Around them, the hot flames began eating through the ceiling. Bright, at his side, was breathing hard, too hard, practically gasping. However, he ignored JT - the stubborn little  _ shit _ \- and began tugging at his pant leg again.

A snap above them had them both glancing up. Through the smoke, they couldn’t see anything, but JT was willing to bet the floor was ready to collapse. The whole building was giving up.

Where were Dani and Gil? And Flemming? Had they given up on them, too?

Malcolm tugged hard and JT hissed, the wood slicing through more of his leg. “Bright! Get  _ out--! _ ”

Another deafening crack above them and JT’s stomach dropped. His heart throbbed on his tongue and he only had a moment, just one second, to catch Malcolm’s determined,  _ terrified _ gaze before the air was punched from his lungs as he dropped fast and slammed hard to concrete below.

He must have blacked out. It could have been for hours, and it could have been for minutes. JT wouldn’t forgive himself, though, if it were more than a few seconds. When he came to, sputtering and choking on nothing, for a moment, disorientation hit hard. He couldn’t see, couldn’t  _ breathe _ , couldn’t remember where he was or why he was there. JT’s hands ran up over the warming pavement below him and he frowned deep, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

But no, that wasn’t sleep.

It was smoke.

_ The building. The fire. _

_ Malcolm. _

JT jolted upright with a gasp. His ribs pulled odd, too swollen in his chest. He staggered to his hands and knees, crawling through the swirling haze of heat and dust and smoke and ash, fumbling blindly for Bright. He couldn’t have gotten far, as he was only inches away upon falling. A sinking dread had him wondering if Malcolm left him, if he couldn’t lift JT and couldn’t rouse him, so he ran. A slap of reality had him screaming to himself that  _ no _ , that wasn’t Malcolm’s style, that wasn’t who he was.

“You’re my people...” Malcolm had said, gesturing to JT all those months ago during the stakeout.

And JT believed him.

He stumbled a few more feet, or maybe it was inches, he couldn’t tell. His hands groped around splinters of hot wood and dusted over the ash-caked floor before his thumb ran against fabric, against something that could have  _ definitely _ been a thousand-dollar suit and JT crawled faster, ignoring the splitting pain in his ribs and ignoring the ache in his leg.

The smoke was merciless, obscuring Bright even when his face was a foot away. JT choked, dipping his head lower, low enough to have his ear hovering over Malcolm’s mouth. A hesitant puff of air was cool against his cheek in the otherwise blazing inferno-of-a-building. “Bright!” JT gasped. “B-Bright! Hey!”

Malcolm’s head jerked. He sputtered, his chest heaving as he writhed off the floor with a guttural coughing fit. When he blinked up at JT, JT could see his pupils were blown wide and uneven, one swallowing the bright bluegreen, the other a pinprick. Blood glued his eyelashes together as it oozed heavy and near-black from a cut above his right eyebrow. Cursing under his breath, JT mumbled, “ _ Christ.  _ Come on, man,” JT fisted his hands in Malcolm’s tar-stained suit shirt. Malcolm grasped for his sleeve. “Come on. Stand up.” He pulled hard.

Bright  _ shrieked _ .

JT jolted backwards. His back slammed against a searing heat and he jerked away again, breathing hard as his hands came up to defend himself. Why was he defending himself? JT shook his head, trying to dislodge his confusion, as he blinked over at a thick, flaming support beam.

A thick, flaming support beam that had Malcolm pinned to the floor. His hips were twisted awkwardly underneath the slab of wood, everything below his beltline obscured by the actively burning beam.

JT would have choked if he weren’t already wheezing. His horrified shock must have come off as a dull surprise to Malcolm, because Malcolm’s eyes fluttered shut, his head lolling against the concrete as the fight drained from him. Didn’t he  _ realize _ he was pinned?

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he was giving up. Giving JT a chance to run. To escape. To live.

“Get out!” Muller had shouted, practically begging him. “Just  _ leave _ , JT!”

And JT had.

He had run.

It was the biggest mistake he had ever made.

As Malcolm’s eyes flicked open again, and his mouth opened to speak those words, to say those  _ damning  _ words to JT again, JT silenced him with a, “Hold on!”

He scrambled forward, hooking his hands underneath the fiery beam. Pain lanced up his wrists and he flinched back instinctively. JT couldn’t see clearly, but he could feel the skin of his palms already beginning to swell with burns. He growled in frustration and whipped around, looking for something, for  _ anything _ to jam underneath it. Something for leverage, or something as a counterweight. Something so he could drag Bright up and out and away from such a hellscape.

What wood was laying around was either charred black or still on fire. The building groaned above them, mocking JT and threatening to drop itself onto them.

He startled when a cold grabbed his wrist. JT jumped around, catching Malcolm’s eyes.

Those eyes again.

Muller’s eyes.

Bright’s eyes.

_ Those eyes _ .

Malcolm was giving up. He was giving in. The light that was normally so sharp in his eyes was muted, snuffed out with weakened defeat and Malcolm shuddered a gasp. “J…” He couldn’t even finish JT’s name. His voice tapered out, devoured by the same roaring flames that threatened to burn him alive in an abandoned basement. Malcolm’s eyes slipped shut again, rolling back in resignation.

JT’s mind went white.

Without thought, he ripped off his bulletproof vest and rammed it under the beam, making enough noise to draw Malcolm’s confused curiosity his way. He stared at JT through slits in his eyes as JT inched towards the beam again. “I’m going to lift,” JT shouted over the fire. He sucked in air. Agonizing heat seared his windpipe. “A-And you’re...going to drag yourself o-out!”

Malcolm closed his eyes again. His body went lax.

“ _ M-Malcolm! _ ” JT choked.

Bright startled awake. He barely caught JT’s gaze.

“You need t-to  _ move _ , man!” JT slid his hands under his vest. The heat burned, biting at his cheeks and scraped up skin, but he shook it away. JT turned to the beam, steadied his legs and back and braced his back, and screamed, “ _ Move, _ Bright!”

He lifted with all the strength he could, his arms ripping with fresh pain. The beam inched up, up, and up until JT heard a shuffle, a muffled scream, and, “Out!”

JT dropped the wood and staggered back, falling on his ass. He shuffled sideways until he was at Malcolm’s side. Malcolm writhed on the floor, struggling to breathe but  _ freed _ , finally. His shoes were scraping in the soot, and JT relaxed a bit more, because  _ at least _ the poor bastard wasn’t paralyzed.

Slowly, JT made his way to Malcolm.

Malcolm sluggishly flopped on the floor. He didn’t bother to reach out or grab JT as JT crawled up to him but, rather, he wheezed, his back arching off the floor with every exaggerated gasp, desperate for air.. JT mumbled, “Bright...W-We have...We have to go…” It was getting harder and harder for JT to keep his eyes open. He could barely see, barely think, and breathing was not an option. JT wheezed, gagging on smoke, but grabbing for a handful of Malcolm’s suit jacket nonetheless.

Bright was small, but in that moment, he was  _ so ungodly heavy _ that JT thought his arm would snap under the weight. He hauled Malcolm up, up against his chest, and then up again as he struggled to his feet. Malcolm sagged against him. JT teetered, struggling to see, to stay awake, to move one leg in front of the other, next over next. For a second, he thought he wasn’t moving at all, that it was all in his distorted mind. For a second, he thought that was that. He had failed Malcolm just as he had failed Muller, and they were all going to die together…

But then his shoes his the foot of the stairs and JT felt a spark of desperation.

He hauled his legs up first before half-carrying, half-helping Malcolm up the step. The second one was harder than the first, and the third was harder than the second. Every passing moment had JT struggling to even remember what he was doing, or why he was doing it. He couldn’t think.

He couldn’t  _ breathe _ .

He--

“JT!” JT’s head snapped up as he collapsed to the grass.

Grass?

He sucked in as much air as his lungs would allow, gaping like a fish, gulping more and more  _ and more _ . Clarity washed over him in waves as a headache slowly began to bloom under his skull, pounding and leaving him wincing. He didn’t remember getting outside, didn’t remember even remembering where he was, but he was out, and alive, and breathing  _ finally _ , and that was all he could really care about. The sun was impossibly bright overhead, blocked out partially by Gil, partially by EMTs as they peeled Malcolm from JT’s side.

_ Malcolm. _

Nothing but, “oh shit, oh shit, oh shit” was forming in JT’s thoughts as he twisted around to find Bright’s unconscious body curled into his. His hair was black, skin smeared with ash. As the paramedics rolled him onto his back to bring a penlight to his eyes and a mask to his nose and mouth, Malcolm’s limbs locked. He jerked, once, hard, then stilled. The EMTs pulled away.

Malcolm’s body twitched again, then again, and he made a choking noise, something feral and deep and so hind-brain it didn’t even sound human. Bright’s body jerked in a rhythm, arms curling, legs kicking and picking up speed as his head knocked back against the grass, eyes rolled up and a sound squeezed out of his lungs. “He’s seizing.” One EMT muttered. Behind him, somewhere, Dani cursed. Gil dropped to his knees, and the sun blinded JT.

But he couldn’t squint. Nor could he look away.

How could he, when Malcolm was writhing in the grass half-a-foot away from him, coughing up pink-tinged spit? He stared, half-aware of what the EMTs were saying as they maneuvered Bright onto his side, cradling his head so he didn’t choke on his vomit. Malcolm limbs kicked out evenly but fast, his foot clipping JT’s thigh at one moment but JT couldn’t care less.

“Oh fuck…” he managed.

The scream of another ambulance pricked his ears but JT only watched. Only watched, and waited, and held his breath as much as Malcolm did because Malcolm’s lips were turning blueish-purple, his eyes still up, body still locked, limbs snapping against the surges of the seizure that wouldn’t just let him go.

A beat passed, and more EMTs flooded the scene.

Another, and Malcolm’s body relaxed slowly, very slowly, the residual twitches ripping through him.

Another, and someone was in JT’s face, asking him questions, questions he ignored in favor of saying, “Move!” and “That’s my partner!” He could make out Bright’s eyes fluttering shut. He could hear his sudden breath, his sharp gasp, as if he hadn’t breathed air before. But JT couldn’t blame him, because his shouting had made him lightheaded. Through the growing dimness in the corners of his vision, JT could see the stretcher Malcolm was loaded onto, strapped in and wheeling away, a mask over his smudged face. JT squinted around the EMT asking him more questions, and more, and only relaxed when Bright disappeared into the back of an ambulance.

He closed his eyes.

Then, nothing.

* * *

“...And so, basically, it’s looking like Jonah Davis will be joining his brother in prison. Gil’s confident that he’ll be charged with his five murder charges, but also with attempted murder and arson for what happened earlier.” Dani paused, her hands on her hips, hair frizzy but still stylish against the humidity outside. She popped an eyebrow at JT. “You sure you’re ready to leave?” 

JT nodded, gingerly slipping his belongings into his bag. With his hands fattened by white bandages and sterile gauze, it was hard to grip anything, let alone grip, lift, move, and release in a coordinated manner. Tally had promised to help him, but alas, she left him to fend for himself as she talked with Gil outside. After finally managing to drop his phone into the small gym bag, JT flung it over his shoulder and said, “I ain’t staying here any longer than I have to.”

“You sound like Bright.” Dani chuckled.

JT hung his head, smiling. “Yeah…”

The soft sounds of the hospital carried around them as they sat in the silence. JT wasn’t sure if Dani was thinking the same, but she must have been, because a moment later she asked, “You hear anything on him, yet?”

“Nope.” JT tried to sound as casual as possible. His heart fluttered uncomfortably in his chest. “But it’s only been a day, right? Docs said he’d be in that coma for like...two, right?”

“Twenty-four hours.” Dani corrected. “And it’s been  _ twelve  _ hours, not a whole day. So, you should stay, right?”

JT shook his head. He glanced out the windows leading into the hallway, past the curtains, to where Tally was standing. She waved to him briefly, smiling, before continuing to talk to Gil about something. Maybe she was trying to distract him. JT knew that, if he had the energy, he would, too. The man had Jessica and Ainsley Whitly on his ass every few moments, pestering him about Malcolm’s recovery, but it seemed they forgot that Gil was as much in the dark as the rest of them were.

Bright was brought in with a concussion and a brain bleed caused by the fall, the seizure resulting from such trauma. While the surgeon was confident that Malcolm would recover fully, it was only a matter of time to tell just  _ how much _ he would recover. The risk of severe complications was low, and yet, JT couldn’t help but think of the worst to come. With Bright’s luck, he’d end up comatose for the rest of his life from a little nasty fall.

A fall, and severe smoke inhalation.

And crush injuries.

Another surgeon had warned them that, while the damage was fortunately minimalistic, physical therapy could be in Malcolm’s future. Maybe only for a week, maybe less, maybe more, and maybe not at all, but the bruises on his hips weren’t small. Somehow, Bright had avoided fractures and disgusting breaks. He came out with, from what the X-Rays could see, essentially no long-lasting damage. But the pain would be intense, and extensive, and he could fall or stumble a lot, only deepening his injuries.

For as much as Malcolm got into shit, JT was surprised with how unscathed he’d emerge. 

A knock on the doorway had JT’s eyes snapping up. He softened at the sight of Tally. She slipped into the room, smiling. “Ready, baby?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.” JT bowed out of the room, leaving Dani to stay behind with Gil, Jessica, and Ainsley. As much as JT wanted to stick around, he really couldn’t find it in himself to do so at the moment. Selfishly, he  _ needed _ to be at home, with his wife, and his couch, and his bed, and his movies. It was the little things that made the horrific experience of nearly burning and suffocating to death that much more tolerable.

In the car, he was silent.

At home, he was somehow even more quiet.

Tally cooked them up their favorite dish - chicken and dumplings - and soon poured them a glass of rich wine. But JT couldn’t drink it, because it was the wine he had gifted to them after finding out about Tally’s pregnancy. So, instead, he sat on the sofa next to his breathtakingly beautiful wife and just...zoned out. A part of him felt bad for tuning out of whatever Tally was saying, but she didn’t mind as he apologized again and again, saying, “Sorry, I...fell off for a second. What were you saying?”

After the forth time, she said, “What’s on your mind, JT?”

JT shook his head.

What  _ was _ on his mind? Gil and Dani were fine, Davis was behind bars, Melissa Marinzetti was shaken but alive and ready to testify in court, and Malcolm…

They had said he’d be all right.

But what if he wasn’t?

What if Malcolm would die overnight? He had survived the first night, sure, but what if that was it? What if his brain began to bleed again? What if he had another seizure that fried his mind? What if--?

Tally said, “Go back.” It wasn’t a suggestion, but a command. JT glanced over at her, brows pinched, and Tally deepened her gaze. “Go  _ back _ . Back to them. To Malcolm.” She tapped his temple gently. “Go quell that little nagging voice in your head, okay?”

What good would that do him, though? He already knew Malcolm was alive, was breathing, so what good would it do him to see it? Gil was staying over as his emergency contact, and Jessica and Ainsley were family; all three of them would be calling - or, at  _ least _ Gil - if something were to go wrong. So what good would it do him?

JT huffed, “I’m fine, babe.” He stood slowly, minding his aching muscles and burned hands, and moved to the kitchen. Uncorking the wine was painful with his blistered hands, but he bit his tongue and kept it to himself as he carefully poured his untouched glass back into the bottle. JT stared down at the label as he did. He spit out a laugh, something disgustingly bitter, as he read the label for the first time in a month: Egon Muller Scharzhofberger Spatlese Riesling…

_ Muller. _ What a coincidence.

Maybe  _ that _ was what was bothering him? God knew how much it affected him to see the resignation of death for the first time in Malcolm, but  _ a second? _

Bright was not Muller. They weren’t even closely synonymous, mostly for the fact that Muller was dead, and had long since  _ been _ dead, his body somewhere in the dunes of the middle east.

Right where JT left him.

His eyes flashed in JT’s mind.  _ Those eyes _ .  _ The _ eyes. The eyes he couldn’t escape no matter how  _ fucking hard _ he tried because everyone in his life had a death sentence. Malcolm was destined to die from stupidity. Dani could die by her own hands. Gil would die of heartbreak, eventually. Tally could die from a pregnancy complication. And Muller?

Muller died from  _ his  _ decision.

He jerked back, nearly dropping the bottle, his glass slipping from his hands and spilling wine across the countertops amongst the pieces of glass. “Jesus…” JT snarled. He hung his head for only a moment, gathering his thoughts, before pushing up and for a paper towel.

Tally was already there, at his side, handing him a napkin as she dabbed at the tile floor. They worked silently until the cork was back in place and the glass was in the trash can, all evidence of the accident swept away. Tally slipped against JT, wrapping her arms up and around his back, cheek smushed to his chest, as she whispered, “Go see him. Forgive yourself.”

“He’s not Muller.” JT croaked. His throat still hurt from all that smoke. He still felt weak from that near-death experience.

Tally hummed. “No, he’s not. But then, why do you keep acting like he is?”

And, with that, JT left. He strode into the hospital with only fifteen more visitation minutes left for non-family members. Gil had managed to usher Jessica and Ainsley down to the cafeteria, leaving JT in the too-quiet, too-small room with an unconscious Malcolm Bright. He was intubated, and deep under in a medically-induced coma, but he was alive, and that was what mattered most. How he came out of it, they would work with. For now, JT was grateful. That was one solid difference between him and Muller: Malcolm was alive, right here, right now, while Muller was not, and hadn’t been for a long time.

"Hey, man," JT began awkwardly, shuffling closer to Malcolm’s bedside, lowering himself into a chair that had been pulled up. Beside him, the machines were silent but steady, a reminder to Bright's breaths, his pulse, his  _ life _ . Though mechanical, something about the tube snaked down his throat, breathing for him, reassured JT. Malcolm was alive, and he would  _ stay _ alive so long as that machine was breathing for him, for his weakened lungs. JT lowered his head and sighed. "You know, Gil was crying earlier, I think. I'd never seen that before. You know that? In all these years... _ shit _ , bro, you're really something special to him."

He paused, as if waiting for Malcolm's response.

"I knew a guy once. In the military. Name was Muller. Vincent Muller." JT chuckled at a flickering memory. "Dude was... _ insane. _ Stupid smart, too. But he had this, uh, this  _ chip _ on his shoulder, or something. He always did stupid shit to save others. Don’t know why. Never did find out."

Malcolm's intubated breaths answered him. A rhythmic rise and fall, a hiss of the machine.

JT continued, softly, "He died saving me. IED under my foot. He took my place and told me to get out of there.." His voice wobbled. “And I did.” JT clenched his jaw tight. "And it killed him. I killed him." He couldn't stop the intrusive memories from rippling through his thoughts. Of Muller, shredded to bits. Of Muller giving up, giving in, looking at JT with _those eyes_ as he ushered JT out of the building. Muller was left there, all those decades ago. JT had never regretting anything more than delivering nothing but a medal to his family.

He glanced up to Malcolm, half-expecting his eyes to be open, like in the movies. JT half-expected him to be staring down at him, the intubation tube gone and his wounds vanished as he said, "It's not your fault."

But this wasn't the movies. Malcolm was unconscious, still breathing from a machine, still sedated with a cocktail of drugs and antibiotics. The stitches in his forehead were plastered over with a white bandage, and a thick band of gauze was wrapped around where they had shaved and cut his head open. The bruises that were mottling his skin were hidden by a lightweight gown and the cotton blanket draped over his slight frame.

JT choked on a swell of emotions. "I almost got you killed, too, man. But I couldn't--" He pursed his lips as tears threatened to fall. Waiting for them to dissipate took longer than JT wanted, but when his breathing smoothed out, he finished, "But I couldn't leave you, too. Not like Muller." His sigh was calculated, enough to give him a beat to breathe, but not so much to cry. "You're my brother, man." JT's hand slipped up to Bright's, not touching, but close. "And I love you. So, get over this and get your scrawny ass back to work, hear me?" He squeezed Malcolm’s fingers carefully, lightly, before standing and leaving.

He passed by Ainsley, Gil, and Jessica in the hallway.

In the morning, he received a call from Gil, asking for his help. Malcolm was awake and  _ furious _ , demanding to go home, to leave and, “never get stuck in a hospital again”, or so he said. But JT snickered at the realization that Bright hadn’t realized that he was dealing with  _ himself _ , and never going to a hospital again was, unfortunately, impossible. Whether drowning or being poisoned by snakes or getting stabbed and tortured or nearly being smothered to death by a slab of wood and a shitton of smoke, Malcolm and hospitals went together better than a square peg in a circular hole.

So, JT showed up. He looked to Dani for guidance, but she had an armful of an enraged Ainsley while Gil had the other half, holding Jessica as she spat at her daughter about something, about, “No, he  _ should not _ go home, Ainsley Maria Whitly! He needs to  _ rest! _ ”

“And he can  _ rest _ at home!” Ainsley argued back.

And JT didn’t want to deal with that.

He stepped inside Bright’s hospital room rather weirdly, not really sure what to do. Malcolm had his back to him, leaning heavily on the footboard of his bed, dressed in something too casual for his liking: joggers and a lightweight hoodie. The guy looked worse for wear, more beaten up than JT had ever seen. The bandages were still in place, but he was more pale than not, and it was disturbing how few shades were in-between Bright’s translucent skin and the sterile-white gauze. He moved slowly, trying to close one hand around a folded tee shirt but unable to do so. His fingers weren’t cooperating, dumb and useless, and his other hand was holding him upright, his whole body shaking with the strain.

Should JT make his presence known? Or should he just...turn and leave? Would that be awkward?

Before he could decide, Malcolm whipped around with a sigh. They both startled, though Malcolm was, rightfully, more shocked than JT. He glanced JT over with sunken, exhausted eyes, and quickly cracked a weak smile. It wasn’t fake, per se, but it  _ was _ forced. “Hey. Morning.”

“Morning.” JT glanced behind Malcolm, at his barely-packed bag. “Need help?”

“What?” Malcolm laughed. Now  _ that _ , JT knew, was fake. “No. No, I’m...I’m fine. Just…” He trailed off, looking more and more confused by the second. “Sorry,” he said, abruptly. “Uh, the concussion...It makes it hard to, uh, think. And...probably the post-ictal state from...uh, from the seizure. Did--Where you there? When I...I…?”

“When you had the seizure?” JT clarified.

Bright nodded stiffly. “Yeah…”

“Yeah I was. Shit was terrifying, dude.” JT stepped a bit closer, close enough that he could catch Malcolm should he fall, though it would hurt his bandaged hands as much as JT imagined it would hurt Malcolm’s hips or head. Or pride, for that matter. He continued, “Are you...sure you’re good to leave, bro? There’s nothing wrong with staying a little longer.”

“No.” Malcolm waved him off weakly. “No, I don’t want to be here.”

Silence stretched between them. JT shuffled a bit, from foot to foot, and Malcolm looked anywhere but at him. The argument outside raged on, it seemed, as nobody had come in to interfere with their awkward little gathering.

"Bro--"

"So--"

Malcolm and JT stared up at one another. JT gestured to him. "You first."

Bright cleared his throat, a forced motion to likely attempt to dispel the tension. It didn't work. "So, uh, I...Sorry for worrying you."

"You worry everyone, man. Like, all the time." JT shrugged. “I mean, your family’s in hysterics, still. And you made Gil--"

"I made him cry, I know." Malcolm licked his lips tentatively. “Though, you weren’t exactly sure of that, were you?”

JT frowned.

Malcolm blinked up at him, sheepish.

The realization, then, dawned on JT or, rather, smacked him straight in the face. He pulled in a breath, but it didn't satiate the embarrassment that was beginning to crawl up his throat. "You were awake?"

"Well, there's information proving that, uh, that roughly twenty-five percent of all comatose patients are aware but unable to…" At JT's glare, Malcolm tapered off. "But uh, yeah, I...I heard you."

Where was JT supposed to go from there? Apologize, embarrassed? Or stand still and say nothing? That was  _ private _ information, and he half-wanted to throttle himself for even letting it slip in the first place, because how pathetic could he  _ be _ to keep comparing people to a dead man? How would Bright view him if he was still hung up on something that happened twenty-one years ago?

"I'm sorry." Malcolm blurted out, stunning JT. "For your friend. For...what happened. I’m sorry." JT wanted to shrug nonchalantly. He wanted to wave Malcolm off, to dismiss him and move on, pretending the moment never happened, but Malcolm continued, “And, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you killed him. I, uh, I think he died...uh, saving you or, something…” Bright moved to pull at the bandages wrapped around his head. “Sorry. I’m...uh,  _ what I’m trying to say _ is, uh, is…” He licked his lips. “Give yourself more credit. Because you save lives. You saved mine, and Melissa's, and that was just in one day!”

JT blinked over at him.

Bright nodded once, curtly, and began to sink towards the floor at a painfully slow pace. JT stepped up, hooking his elbow under Malcolm’s arm and guiding him to sit. Malcolm winced the entire way, biting his teeth against whatever aches and pains worked up his body. Once he got Bright seated, JT said, “Dude, just stay here.”

“I love you, too, JT.” Malcolm said, eyes bright and truthful and the moment was so mushy that JT felt uncomfortable.

He patted Malcolm’s shoulder gently with his unburned fingertips. “Yeah, let’s just drop it, bro.”

“I mean it.” Bright insisted. “And thank you. For saving me. For helping. For saving  _ everyone _ you have. Thank you.” Before he could answer, JT heard the clack of heels behind him. The sound had him shuffling sideways in time for Jessica and Ainsley to rush in in a whirlwind of emotions and love, cooing and helping however they could. Ainsley held the early release papers to Malcolm’s face and, for a moment, JT thought he was going to sign and leave, hobbling out of the hospital, or maybe crawling.

Instead, Malcolm sagged, deflating from his bravado, and mumbled, “Actually...I think I’m going to stay.”

Gil came up next to JT, a wheelchair in his hands. He stopped dead at the admission from Bright, blinking for a moment, before turning to JT and whispering, “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing.” JT shrugged.

Malcolm, from around his mother and sister, said, “I  _ do _ love you, JT!”

If JT weren't shocked into cold stiffness, he was sure his face would have burst into flames of shame and embarrassment. Instead, he felt his ears burn. “...What?”

“I love you, too.” Malcolm repeated. He smiled wide, a loose, sloppy smirk and exclaimed, “Brothers forever, bro!”

**Author's Note:**

> To the one who requested this: I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> To everyone else reading this, I hope _you_ enjoyed, too! And, if you liked this and would like to join our Prodigal Son whump discord server, click [ here!](https://discord.gg/xCdxX6q) Also, I'm disgustingly bad at HTML, so if that doesn't work, message me please...
> 
> Sorry for misspells and errors!


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